So, I’m starting this in the 6th inning. The last time I started a game in the 6th inning was horrible. That was yesterday. Yesterday was horrible.

Jon Lester. Jon Lester is today. TODAY.

And, if the 4-0 score is any indication, today is a GOOD day. One out.

——

GOOD DAY. THREE OUTS. GOOD FRICKING DAY.

—-

4-0. Pedroia doing his I-know-how-to-play-baseball (he forgot yesterday) trek to first. AND Second. Man on first. Man on second. Triple sexy. Welcome back, Gonz. Thanks for running to first base this time. See how much better things progress when we run?

—

Weird. They keep doing these crowd closeups. And no one looks invested. Are you seeing this? Everybody’s just like, eh… it’s a game. There’s no anger. No fire. Really, no Chicago hats. Oh. There’s one. Weirdness. It’s like body snatchers or something. They’re soulless out there.

Youkie strikes out.

As we’ve been pitching (let’s say hurling) lately, a four run lead seems scant.

Scant, I say.

Thanks-be-to-Lester.

Papi at the plate.

By the way, did you see THIS? Jeb sent me the latest proof that the Onion hates us.

Facing the cruel prospect of winning 200 grueling games in his interminable 19-season career, 44-year-old Red Sox pitcher Tim Wakefield tried to get a line drive to hit him in the head Friday to finally put an end to it all. “I didn’t throw [White Sox hitters] any knuckleballs because I wanted to make sure the ball had enough speed coming off the bat to shatter my skull,” said Wakefield, who lunged face-first at everything batted toward him.

Andddddddd…. strike out. Whatev.

—–

That was a sexy Youk catch. Catch. Throw. Kazaam. Out. Bottom of the 7th. One out.

So, I met a strange person that gave me a very strange idea today. I met a girl who… Okay, Whatever. Scut looked safe in THAT replay. Whatever. Okay. Story. Right. So, I met this very strange person…. ohmygodithoughtthatwasahomerunbutitwasapopout. Right. Three outs. Okay. Very strange person. She watches tv. A lot of tv. And is, apparently, quite dissatisfied with just an hour-long episode. She writes fan fiction. See, I knew that people did this with Star Wars (I dated a guy… there was a Wookie incident… don’t worry about it) but I was unaware people did this with, say “Friends.”

Weird, right?

But it gave me this idea. What would happen if we wrote baseball fan fiction? I mean, besides scoring 50,000 runs, I keep thinking about things I would insert into games. Drama. Plots. Side characters. Clearly, there would be some elicit scandal.

Orioles cry off the field after 47-0 shutout. What a great title for my fan fiction. I’ll work on it.

—-

It is the bottom of the 8th. One out.

Kevin Youkilis would be the star of my fan fiction.

Oh, and that homerun… the one that just made the score 5-2? That wouldn’t have happened. I might, however, keep the lame fireworks.

—-

And the eighth inning ends. And the 9th inning begins. And I’m distracted thinking about my fictional game where Yamaico runs on the field for a goodbye anthem.

It’s really great.

Oh, we just got on a base. Just one base. Because I’m not writing this game. 9th.

—-

You know what? I like watching games on mute.

—

And Adrian Gonzalez gets a homerun. Oh, that one was real. And the score is 7-2. Top of the 9th. Zero outs. That means no outs.

—-

Okay. If you are not watching this, you’re going to think this is fan fiction too: Kevin Youkilis just got his 15th season homerun.

See, you know I didn’t make that up, because if I made it up, it would be like 211th home run. 8-2, top of the 9th with Papi at the plate.

Oh. Wikipedia says he is from Vancouver. Which means he’s probably a fan of Maxim Lapierre. Ew.

—–

Ew. Do you think he will spread Canuck (the hockey team, not the Canadian stereotype) germs all over OUR Fenway Park?

—-

Oh. Hah. I self-corrected, FDA. Totally just read your comments.

Well… we need a pitcher…

—-

Okay. Man on first. Really???? I think it’s cruel to draw it out so, Wheeler.

—-

Wow. I am at 979 comments now. I have to start planning my super-amazing piece of artwork. Commenter number 1,000, you see, will be treated to a special marker drawing. I should really get more markers.

—-

Dear White Sox,

The pinstripes are still a bit much for me.

Re-evaluate.

Thanks,

Lauren

—–

Oh, look. One on first. One on second. I’m sorry. One on second. One on third. Oh look.

I’d be concerned, really, I would. But it is 10-3. I’m just slightly bemused that you’re doing this to them, Dan. It’s like… beating a dead horse? Ew.

THIS article says Navarro was projected as a third baseman. Good. I’m glad he’s leaving then. GOOD. You heard me.

So much drama.

What are your thoughts on trades/Youkilis’ beard/the Pink Sox series? You know. The important things.

~L

PS- As indicated in the comments, TOOSOXY correspondent FDA will be at next Wednesday’s Wake-fest. 200. It’s going to happen.

SOOOOOOO The rest of this is pretty much in response to FDA comments. Which I’m sure you care about extensively. So I thought I’d let you know to increase your attention and focus.

All the comments! FDA, that’s why you were promoted to correspondent! Keep up!

Some Canadians play baseball. Um. Toronto. It’s very cold there.

No. I don’t pay people.

I like Canada. I really like Vancouver (as a place). They have orca whales. Did you know that, FDA? Orca whales. Which is great. And baseball is great. So. Um. Logically…

You never know, FDA. Maybe he can be converted. It happens. And maybe he’s not a Canucks fan. Maybe… um. Maybe he likes something totally random. Like the Ducks. For no reason. It could be a personality quirk. Sort of endearing in an awkward irrelevant way?

Well… at least twenty people were fans. There were fires, after all.

A baseball chat would be nice. We should do a dual blog. I wish I were smart enough to know how to do that.

Wait. What is going on with THIS inning, Wakey? One out. Bottom of the 6th, man on second. Wait. Okay. The MINUTE I start watching… tie game?

Really?

Well… I guess that’s kind of how my Friday night is going.

——–

Sometimes people are infuriating. Really. And sometimes you just get annoyed and have to leave the bar. It’s for your own sanity, really. And to protect people’s sensitive, sensitive eyes. So easy to tear out, you know. Sometimes you just have to call it a night.

Even if it is only 9 p.m. and it’s only your second Friday night off in an ever. Really. It was that bad. But… I picked up a bottle of pinot (the G) on the way home. So don’t you worry about me, Soxies. Spend your time worrying about Timmy and number 200.

—–

Okay, kids. You know what you were getting into tonight. You knew you’d have to slug ’em out. You knew Wakey would need it. Let’s allllllll be honest.

And still, you refuse to hit the ball.

Just saying. I expected more from you. Especially you, Carl Crawford of the icky strikeout. I thought we were friends now. Compadres. Compatriots. High fivers.

I guess not. I guess NOT.

“That was real close to being trouble,” announcer says, patronizing what could have been a Salty homer. Jerks.

I’m having all kinds of chicken and egg revelations. If… if… I didn’t watch the game tonight… would the score still be 1-0? It’s like “The Shining.” By Mr. King. A Red Sox fan:

“Well, you know, Doc, when something happens, you can leave a trace of itself behind. Say like, if someone burns toast. Well, maybe things that happen leave other kinds of traces behind. Not things that anyone can notice, but things that people who “shine” can see. Just like they can see things that haven’t happened yet. Well, sometimes they can see things that happened a long time ago. I think a lot of things happened right here in this particular hotel over the years. And not all of ’em was good.”

My negative energy is like those scary twins in the hall of blood. Sticking around and seeking company.

See?

Bottom of the 7th. Two run homer. I blame myself.

—-

A less selfish person would stop watching.

Maybe, deep, deep in my soul… I secretly want us to lose. Just so everyone else is as bitter as I am tonight.

One of those “If I go, I’m taking you ALLLLLL with me” rants is coming, I’m sure.

Just wait for it.

1-3. It is now the top of the eighth. Well. Two outs. Of course. 10:02. Time flies when you’re pissed off. Did I say two outs? I meant three. Because five seconds just passed. And, apparently, that’s all it takes for dreams to die. I’m going to watch orca whale videos on youtube again. That ALWAYS makes it better.

——

Alfredo Aceves. You wouldn’t believe my evening. You wouldn’t make it worse, would you? You are really growing on me. I could love you, you know. I love how Catholic you are. And I’m not being the slightest bit sarcastic. I love it.

Reddick catches. That does not make up for your complete and utter lack of offense, Josh.

But thanks for trying.

Two outs? Did that happen while I was on the phone? People sure do call me a lot.

—

Due up: Pedroia. Did he extend his hit streak? Because hit streaks are meant to be extended. And not rot. Stagnant. Like a lovely girl on a Friday. Or a rotten thing. Like. Um. A tomato.

I am realllllyyyyyy getting tired of this town.

——-

Oh. Two outs away from losing to the fricking White Sox.

Oh.

Ortiz.

Strike. Mmhmmm.

Foul.

Mmmhmmm.

“Two outstanding pitches,” announcer said.

SHUT. YOUR. FACE.

Anger eyes. Yes. Do those anger eyes again, Papi.

And the count one and two.

Sox, I hate your stupid pinstripes. That make you look-

Check it? Check it? No. I don’t think so. I don’t.

Damnit.

Oh. Good call.

He didn’t.

Oh. Good call.

Good call?

Wow.

What does that mean for America?

Ground ball. To first. Out.

Two down.

Of course.

Youkie. It is up to you. Don’t stress, Youkilis. I will not blame you this time when you fall, fall, fall into the abysmal crap that is my evening. Like bird poo on a sweater.

Strike.

Mm-hmm. I kind of thought so.

A foul. Out of play. Mm-hmmm. Because if they had caught it would be over. And no. We want to drag this on, don’t we?

Of course we do.

Why end pain quickly?

And this isn’t pain, really. It’s duller. Like the numbness of sitting for a very long time.

This wine gets better the more you drink it. For $8? Swell.

Strike? Oh. A foul. Oh. Okay.

Baby, I admire you for trying. Never giving up. That’s why I love you. It’s sad, really. In this sweet, write-a-book-about-it kind of way… or a song. A sad song.

And then… the PawSox would come into town… and I’d switch hats, turning into the traitor you see before you. Can’t mess with my Red Sox, guys. And Peavy, you were naive if you thought this would last when the REAL team came to town. I AM married, after all. Hi, Youkie.

But see, this game isn’t about nostalgia. This game is about TIM WAKEFIELD.